


too low to find my way, too high to wonder why

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on an amazing tag prompt about zayn as a hipster first-time novelist and harry as a popstar. they meet during an interview in nyc. zayn expects to hate harry, manufactured shill of the music industry. HE DOESN'T. STUFF HAPPENS. SEX STUFF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too low to find my way, too high to wonder why

**Author's Note:**

> fake! obviously! my god, what if zayn wrote a book. what a day that'd be. 
> 
> title is from lebanese blonde from the thievery corporation, carefully put in lowercase because like, zayn thinks caps lock is a construction of the kyriarchy, you know?? 
> 
> my tumblr: ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com

"That was fun," Harry Styles says afterward, a wide, genuine smile on his face, holding out a hand to shake. His voice is the exact same as it was during the interview- low, slow, halting. "Hey, by any chance are you free for dinner? There’s this restaurant that’s supposed to have the best Ethiopian food. Hole in the wall. One of my security guards knows the owner, said it’s amazing-" 

He stops, probably because Zayn is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. 

"Or not," he says, eyes narrowing. "Um. Sorry, are you flying out tonight?" 

"No, I just. Can’t imagine, like, that you don’t have something else to do," Zayn says, composing himself, raising an eyebrow and fumbling for his phone out of his trousers pocket. 

"Got a night off," Harry says, with his trademark dopey smile. "Honestly, mate, I’d love to talk to you about the book." 

"You haven’t really read it, though," Zayn says, with a smile. "It’s alright. I know he put you on the spot-" 

"I’ve read it," Harry says slowly. "Why would I lie? S’not like anyone would care if I hadn’t. But I have." 

"Okay," Zayn says, kindly. "Alright, you have." 

Harry looks confused. 

"Anyway," he says, gesturing to the side. "Dinner. If you like." 

"I - I should probably, uh. I have some people to meet up with." 

"Bring ‘em," Harry says easily. "Why not? I don’t know too many people in New York, I’d love to meet some." 

"They’re not really - you know." 

"What?" 

"Not sure if they’d like to be papped and on the gossip blogs tomorrow," Zayn says, instead of  _they’re not really the type to hang out with a brainless pawn of the music industry_. 

Harry nods, and he looks almost- hurt. No. The man may look like a puppy, but he’s a millionaire popstar and Zayn does not need to pity him. 

"Well, there’s ways around that, sometimes," he says, but he sounds weary. "Anyway. It’s alright. Great to meet you."  

He turns away, and Zayn says, almost unwillingly, “Wait.” 

Harry stops. “Yeah?” 

"A couple of my mates, from uni, are uh- having a thing. In Brooklyn. Like, just a small get-together, nothing big. If you wanted to -" 

He falters, feeling stupid. This is Harry bloody Styles he’s talking to, not some random. Harry Styles, biggest popstar in the universe, is not going to want to hang around in some grotty Brooklyn flat with a bunch of hipsters (Zayn loves them, but they’re pretty insufferable) smoking weed. Harry Styles probably only goes to parties where he can be, like,  _seen_. With people who are cool to be seen with. Like Britney Spears, or something. Zayn’s pop culture references are pretty dated, but he unironically adored Britney Spears when he was fourteen, before he started smoking cigarettes and stopped listening to mainstream radio. 

"I’d love to," Harry says, interrupting his train of thought. Zayn looks up, and oh. Harry’s grinning from ear to ear. His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles and he looks young and happy and Zayn feels a helpless echoing twinge of happiness in his own stomach, just from pleasing him. How pathetic. 

"Honestly, that sounds perfect, mate," Harry says, still smiling like that, all - magnetic. "Thanks. I was sort of supposed to go to this fashion show thing, but I know shit-all about fashion and I was looking for an excuse to get out of it. I’d- really. Really like that. If it’s alright." 

"Yeah, it’s fine," Zayn says, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Oh god. His friends are going to take the piss for  _ages_. 

Or, worse, they’re going to be impressed and ask for Harry’s autograph. Then he might need to get new friends. 

"So, like, would you like me to meet you somewhere, or what?" Harry says, and then he grabs Zayn’s hand, still holding his phone, and says, "Let me give you my number." 

His palm is warm and smooth, and Zayn marvels over it for a brief, pathetic second before he hands the phone over. 

Harry enters it quickly and gives it back, says, “You’re not going straight there, I imagine.” 

"No, I have to change, and all," Zayn says distantly, still slightly in shock. "Uh, just. Just- I’ll text you the address. I’ll probably head over around ten." 

"Sounds perfect." Harry smiles at him. "I’ll just- work around my security." 

"Don’t bring any," Zayn says hastily. He hadn’t even thought about that. "That’d be like. Really. Not cool. Sorry." 

Harry dimples at him, like Zayn’s said something amusing instead of vaguely rude. “I’ll try my very best.” 

Zayn laughs uncomfortably. “Alright. Well. Uh. See you later, then.” 

Harry nods, watching him, his eyes soft, and Zayn turns away, pulling at the neck of his jumper. Well. That was a completely shit idea, but it’s done. 

Harry probably won’t show up anyway. 

—-

Zayn’s friend Annie’s apartment is even shithole-ier than usual, which is a nice surprise. Zayn shows up at 10:30, texts Harry when he gets there -  _it’s at 122 union ave (union & 13th) in brooklyn, come by if you want_\- and then starts drinking. If Harry shows, he’ll be drunk enough to deal with it. If not, he’ll be too drunk to feel disappointed. 

Harry shows. Before Zayn even has the chance to get drunk.

It’s alright, though. He hasn’t got security, and he’s wearing dark jeans and a faded sky-blue t-shirt, a beanie pulled over his recognizable curls. He looks normal. Zayn sends up a prayer of thanks. 

He’s prepped his friends- meaning he’s muttered, “Just so you know I invited Harry Styles - yeah, the one I did the interview with - yeah, I invited him over” - so no one makes a fuss when Harry walks in. 

"Hey," he says, casually, nodding at the room, and then, "Ooh, d’you mind if I join?" when he sees a joint being passed around. 

Zayn looks at him, impressed, as Harry slides onto the sofa next to him and takes a deep, practiced inhale off the joint. 

Maybe this night’ll be alright.

—

"This tastes different than normal pot," Harry says thoughtfully a half hour later, passing the joint over to Zayn and blowing out a sweet cloud of smoke, and Lucia laughs. Zayn does too, even though he barely knows why. He’s already pretty bloody high, his limbs starting to loosen. It’s been a fuckin’  _week_ , with the book tour and the interviews. It feels good to get out of his head. 

"It’s hash," Lucia says, with a tight red-lipsticked smile. She hasn’t really taken to him, but Zayn expected that. She once wrote a blog entry against the music industry and mentioned Harry and his  _manufactured-pop-machine-pathetic-emblematic-problematic-bullshit_  at least three times “Strong shit. You ever had?” 

Harry shakes his head, taking a sip out of his jar of vodka-cran, and she laughs again. 

"Aww, you’re gonna get high as fuck," Dan says, grinning, and then louder- "Yo, can someone put on some fucking actual music before I fucking kill myself? Thank you, please!" 

The music changes just as Zayn gets ahold of the joint again, beat dropping low and heavy and making the floor shake, and Harry reaches out, sets a hand on Zayn’s thigh. His thumb rubs back and forth. 

"Do a shotgun," he says, with a stoned grin, wide and easy. "To me."

"Mm, yeah, do it," Annie says from where she’s sunk into the couch, texting. "Zayn, honestly, when the fuck are you gonna get to say you’ve swapped smoke with Harry fucking Styles?" 

"Most people have swapped  _something_  with Harry Styles,” Lucia says fake-sweetly, and Harry shoots her a look and says, primly, “M’not a slut.” 

Zayn giggles helplessly, and Harry turns back to him. Moves closer. 

"Just do it," he says, licking his bottom lip. 

Zayn can’t quite remember what it is Harry wants him to do. 

"You’re both so disgustingly hot," Dan says, curled into Annie’s side and staring at them jealously. "It should be illegal." 

Annie snorts as Zayn gives them the finger, and then draws on the joint hard, beckons Harry closer. 

The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is Harry fluttering his own eyes shut. Their lips brush, barely, and Harry takes what Zayn gives, sucks it down, until Zayn’s lightheaded, spinning, and he pulls back with a cough, which he quickly smothers. He opens his eyes, feeling the hit smooth out under his skin, tingling. 

Harry does too, and slowly, a grin curls over his mouth. 

"That felt good," he says, a little slurred, and everyone else cracks the fuck up. 

"Do you suck dick when you’re high?" Dan shouts. "Go on, Harry Styles, suck some dick." 

Annie reaches over and smacks him, but she’s snorting with laughter. 

"Jesus Christ, Dan," Zayn says, meaning to sound reprimanding, but it comes out slow and stoned and in awe. 

Harry just smiles. “Maybe you’ll find out,” he says, right to Zayn. Dan catcalls. 

"I’m getting another drink," Zayn mutters.  

He’s in the tiny kitchen, pouring Stoli into a wine glass and cutting it with splashes from a carton of organic raspberry lemonade, when Harry slinks in behind him. 

"Hi," he says, leaning his head against the worn wooden shelf. 

"Hey." Zayn tries the drink. It’s strong, but fuck it, he’ll drink like he’s at uni again. He has a feeling he’ll need it tonight. 

"Your friends are cool." Harry smiles, squint-eyed, and adjusts the beanie on his head. 

"Sorry," Zayn mumbles, feeling stupid, and Harry touches his arm. 

"No, I mean it." He laughs. "They’re funny. I like them." 

"You’re stoned." 

"Yeah, I am," Harry admits easily. "But I still know you have good mates." 

"Yeah, they’re alright," Zayn mutters. 

"This is the place you’re staying, tonight?" Harry asks, and he probably thinks he sounds completely innocent, but Zayn’s the tiniest bit less high than Harry is and he can see right through it. 

"Yeah," he says. Harry steps closer to him, his mouth opening halfway, and Zayn stumbles back, averting his eyes. "I’m gonna go, uh. Back in. Make yourself another drink if you want." 

"Thanks," Harry says faintly, setting his jar onto the counter and fumbling for the vodka. 

The living room is full of smoke, and a couple people have showed up that Zayn doesn’t know, which sets him on edge. He sits down next to one he does know, his friend Alex who shared the flat next door to him when Zayn was at school here. 

"Yo, I’m Matt," one of the unknowns says, holding out a hand to shake, all deep V-neck, shaved head, tattoos over both arms. 

"Zayn," Zayn says. "Good to meet you." 

"You at NYU or what?" 

"Did my master’s at Columbia, two years ago," Zayn says. "Creative writing." 

"And the lucky-ass motherfucker already has an insanely popular novel out," Alex says, clapping a hand on Zayn’s shoulder and brushing a kiss over his cheek in greeting. "I mean, this asshole is the next Jonathan Safran Foer. The only reason he’s back in the states is for a fucking national book tour, I swear to god." 

Zayn shoves his hip to get him to stop talking, and Alex grins at him, tweaks Zayn’s cheek between his finger and thumb.

"That’s awesome, congrats, man," Matt says. "Good for you."

"Thanks," Zayn says, stiltedly. "Yeah. Uh. It’s cool. Not a big deal." 

"So humble," Dan laughs. "Don’t forget us when you’re big, baby." 

"So, what’s it called?" Matt asks, and then he looks up, behind Zayn, and his eyes go wide. 

"Whoa!" he says. "You’re like. That guy." 

"I’m that guy," Harry says agreeably, from where he’s just come out of the kitchen. "Harry. Good to meet you." 

"Man, my younger sister has this creepy fucking life-size cutout of you in her room." Matt laughs. 

Harry smiles a little, sits down next to Zayn. “That’s sweet of her.” 

"Sorry, he’s high as fuck," Zayn says to Matt, and Harry gives him a surprisingly sharp, annoyed look. 

"I’m fine, actually," he says, turning his gaze away from Zayn. Zayn sits back a little, confused. "What’s your name, sorry?" 

"Matt." 

They shake hands, and then the rest of the newcomers- who apparently didn’t find Zayn important enough to introduce themselves to- all come forward in a little line, like Harry’s the fucking Pope. 

"I love your music," one of the girls says - petite, with her hair tied up in a high bun. "You’re so talented." 

"Thank you," Harry says, the perfect gentleman. Zayn watches him out of the corner of his eye. 

"Talented at selling CDs," Lucia says, half-under her breath. A couple people laugh. "But hey. That’s talent these days, right?" 

"Don’t be a jealous bitch," Dan says, shoving her thigh. "Jesus Christ." 

"Oh, yeah, I’m  _jealous_ ,” Lucia says, and Harry says, “We really don’t have to talk about my music. Please.” 

Annie and Dan roll their eyes in unison, and Zayn winces.

"Music," Lucia says, with a mean little smile. "Okay then."

Harry flushes, buries his face in his drink, and Zayn stares straight ahead, uncomfortable. 

Lucia stands up with a huff, goes over to the Ipod speaker. 

After a minute, Harry puts a hand on Zayn’s thigh. 

"Maybe I’ll head out," he says softly into Zayn’s ear. "Thanks, you know. For everything." 

Zayn’s stomach clenches guiltily. 

"You don’t have to," he says back, and Harry smiles a little, eyes distracted, not looking straight at him. 

"S’not a problem," he says. "I’m sorry." 

"Harry-" 

"I’ll just - head out, Zayn." He stands up, and Zayn does too, feeling dumb but determined. 

"Me too, then," he says, grabbing his scarf. "To smoke a fag at least." 

Harry shrugs with one shoulder like he couldn’t care less, and steps over legs on his way out. 

"Thanks for having me," he says to the room, and Dan says, "Nice to meet you, Harry Styles."

The others mostly stay silent, or carry on talking to each other. Fucking passive-aggressive hipsters. Zayn flushes hard as he follows Harry out. 

Outside Harry yanks out his phone, says, “I’ll have to call a car.”

Zayn digs out a cigarette, doesn’t respond.

"I know that’s like, annoying celebrity behavior, but hey, I’m an annoying celebrity, right?" Harry says, sardonic, and he’s- oh. Shit. He’s angry. 

Zayn’s hackles rise. Poor popstar feels bad for himself, now? 

"You have to be used to that, don’t you?" he says, acidly. "People giving you shit? Do you always run away?" 

Harry’s face goes a hot red. “That’s not-“ 

"Hey, there’s nothing wrong with selling CDs, right?" 

"Fuck you," Harry says, hotly, his voice cracking. 

"Just as fucking stuck-up as I thought you’d be," Zayn lies, laughing at him, and he wants Harry to fight back, maybe even throw a punch. That’d be a fucking headline, huh? 

But instead Harry takes a step back and swallows visibly, and then turns his back on Zayn, quickly. 

Zayn watches his shoulders hitch, in abject horror, eyes wide. Harry couldn’t be- 

"Just gonna call a car," Harry says over his shoulder, and his voice is shaking. "So, uh, thanks. And all."

He waves a hand back at Zayn. Zayn’s stomach hurts. He feels sober all of a sudden, his cigarette burning out in one hand. 

"Harry," he says, low. 

"Thanks!" Harry says firmly. "Good night!" 

"Jesus fucking - listen." He coughs. "I’m sorry." 

"No problem," Harry says, turning towards him. There’s no trace of tears in his eyes. In fact, he looks perfectly sober and pleasant. He smiles blandly. "I totally understand. Thanks again for the invitation-" 

"Can you not do that fake fucking shit with me?" Zayn snaps. 

Harry glares at him. 

"Just - I’m sorry. Honestly. I was being a dick. You don’t have to go." Zayn scratches his beard uncomfortably. "Come on." 

"Don’t care if you think my music’s shit," Harry says, low. 

"I don’t think your fucking music is shit." 

"Yes you do. So do a lot of people. Some of them are my friends, even, but they don’t treat  _me_  like shit.” 

"I don’t!" Zayn spits. "I listened to fucking "Summer Love" while I wrote the entire last chapter of my book. Probably over a hundred times in a row, one day. Okay?" 

There’s a pause. Zayn’s cheeks go hot so fast he feels dizzy. Bloody bleeding fuck, he would not mind being wiped off the earth at that moment. He’s definitely never said that out loud before. 

Harry stares at him for a second, and then suddenly he’s laughing, open-mouthed. 

"Shut up," Zayn says warningly, but his own mouth is threatening to curve up into a smile. "Shut your stupid popstar mouth." 

"You didn’t," Harry laughs. "Nooo. But you’re such a snob." 

"Shut up," Zayn repeats, biting his bottom lip hard to keep from laughing. "It’s catchy." 

"You like my music," Harry says, dimpling a little, his eyelashes fluttering, and Zayn remembers - like a punch to the chest- all the other things he likes about Harry. 

"Don’t tell anyone." 

"Secret’s safe with me," Harry says, holding one hand out for a shake, and when Zayn takes hold of it Harry tugs him in and kisses him, just like that. 

Jesus. It’s been depressingly long since he’s had a shag, and he finds himself opening up to Harry right away, the kiss turning hot and wet and dirty, with Harry tangling their tongues together and moaning shamelessly into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn can’t fucking breathe. Harry tastes like the sharp tang of vodka cranberry and his lips are soft and full, and it’s all happening so fucking fast Zayn can barely process it. 

He breaks away, finds, to his slight dismay, that he has a hand fisted in Harry’s t-shirt and Harry has a palm to the small of Zayn’s back, warm through his shirt. They’re lined up chest to chest, hip to hip, and the heat of Harry’s body is sinking into him, setting him on edge, his skin tingling. 

"Mm," Harry hums, licking his bottom lip, and Zayn’s about to protest when Harry pulls him in again. 

God, he feels good. The hash is still simmering in his blood and it makes every inch where they’re touching feel like it’s on fire, a slow burn. Harry’s kissing him and kissing him and grinding his hips up against Zayn’s in a achingly slow roll. 

"Shit," Zayn gasps out, pulling back a little, his cock throbbing low and steady in his jeans. "Wait. We’re outside." 

Harry blinks at him. He looks absolutely wrecked, all flushed and red-lipped with his eyes huge and dazed. 

"Mm," he says again, thoughtfully. "Can we go inside?" 

"Back into- there?" Zayn doesn’t bother explaining further. 

"I could call a car," Harry says, swallowing, licking his lips again. "And we could go to my hotel. If you want." 

Zayn makes a face- he can’t help it. The idea of it snaps him back to reality. He’s seriously considering having a one-night-stand with a fucking popstar, someone who goes against everything Zayn believes in about art. 

"Or not," Harry adds, seeing his face. "We could also walk past all of your mates, straight into that tiny room that smells like old weed, and fuck while they listen and then let them take the piss out of you for about a decade afterwards." 

Okay. Zayn sees his point. 

"I’ll do whatever," Harry whispers, leaning in and kissing Zayn’s jaw. Zayn looks around, because it’s hitting him, just now, that there could be fucking paparazzi out here. Or even an idiot with an Iphone and good timing.

"Call a car," Zayn says, the words foreign and heavy in his mouth. 

Well. He’ll just give up his dignity for a night. He’s sure many other people have done the exact same thing for Harry fucking Styles. 

Harry grins, and pulls out his phone. 

"Hi- yeah, it’s Harry. Yes. Yes,  _please_. Mmhm, I’m at - Zayn, where are we? Somewhere in Brooklyn.”

"13th and Union," Zayn says, scrubbing a palm over his face. Is he really doing this?" 

"Yeah. 13th and Union. Mm-hm. Thanks, Paul, see you in a second." 

He hangs up, and smiles at Zayn. 

"Your hotel room is obnoxiously expensive and fancy, isn’t it?" Zayn asks, half-joking, and Harry nods, chewing his bottom lip. 

"Pretty much." 

He smiles, then, lips quirking up, and leans in close. “We can fuck on any surface you want, though,” he murmurs, and Zayn feels the heavy, hot thud of arousal drop in the bottom of his belly. 

"You  _are_  a fucking slut,” he says, almost fond, and luckily Harry laughs. 

"I prefer to think I’m having a good time, with a - good amount of people," he says, with a deceptively sweet smile, and a car pulls up to the curb, black and sleek and near-silent. 

The backseat is nicer than any car Zayn’s ever driven in. Not that he’s been in a lot - doing uni in London and his masters at Columbia meant he never really had a reason to. He's never owned one. 

Harry sits next to him and quietly puts a hand on Zayn’s thigh, says, “Can you try to relax, at least?” 

"This is just such - bullshit," Zayn says, and Harry laughs, softly. 

"Course it is. If you get over that, we might actually be able to have a good time." 

"I can’t just put my - my morals aside, like, because I might be able to get an orgasm out of it," Zayn sputters, offended. 

"One orgasm?" Harry asks, nosing at Zayn’s throat, licking gently over his pulse. "Heyyy. You don’t give me enough credit." 

Zayn shudders hard at that, sits there tightly as Harry kisses up and down his neck for the rest of the ride, nibbles at his ear. Zayn’s so hard it hurts, and he can’t touch himself, can’t- admit it. Finally, as they pull up to a hotel in Midtown, Harry draws his fingers lightly over the bulge in Zayn’s trousers and says, curiously, “Oh. You get wet.” 

"Shut up," Zayn grits out, as the door opens, and Harry just grins and offers him a  hand to get out. 

They walk through a back entrance, up into a service elevator, while Harry stares straight ahead, a little flushed, like this is the part of celebrity life Zayn will judge most. 

The room is incredible. Zayn’s place is fine- a Hilton on 42nd Street with a big king bed that he slept for twelve straight hours on the night before. But Harry’s room is just- lush. It feels lush, cool and quiet and tasteful, and Zayn looks around, helplessly impressed, until Harry says, “I know, it’s a travesty. Kiss me?” 

He licks inside Zayn’s mouth without waiting for a yes. 

Harry still tastes so bloody good. Zayn’s heart is pounding in his chest by the time Harry pulls away, says low into his ear, “Where do you want me?” 

Zayn stares at him, and Harry bites his lip in a slow grin. 

"You’re mental," he says, laughing a little, and Harry tugs him onto the bed. 

They kiss for a while- slow, hot, long kisses that feel more intimate than Zayn usually has with a one-night-stand. He’s not good at the intimate stuff, at least not with people he doesn’t know well, but Harry is bossy with it- kisses Zayn exactly how he likes and makes Zayn like it. 

Fuck, does Zayn like it. 

"Mm, I like how you kiss," Harry murmurs, pulling back. Zayn stares dazedly at his mouth. Harry’s eyes are glinting bright and Zayn has the sudden insane urge to get his notebook out of his bag (where it always sits) and scribble down something about Harry’s mouth.  _Blood-flushed lips_ , he thinks stupidly.  _Swollen, worked-over, bitten full-_  

Oh, Jesus. He doesn’t even write fucking pornography. The one sex scene in the book took him four months. He changed every “cock” to “prick” and then back again three separate times before settling on an even mix of the two. His editor wanted to kill him. 

"You - too," he stammers out, and Harry laughs. 

"You’re a bit odd," he says thoughtfully, stroking Zayn’s cheek with one hand. His eyes are so fucking green and perpetually amused, in a way that makes Zayn scared he’s not in on the joke. "Can I suck your cock?" 

He ducks his head, kisses Zayn’s collarbone, slips his hands under Zayn’s shirt, and Zayn says - thickly - “God. Yes.” 

Harry smirks up at him and goes at it. 

He’s very, very good at it, Zayn thinks after a while, staring blearily at the ceiling with his hands in Harry’s endless soft hair. He shudders suddenly when Harry slips a slick finger further back - presses it to his perineum and then around the rim of his arse. Oh. That’s - oh. 

He lets that happen for a bit, feeling the slow, warm burn of oncoming orgasm in the pit of his belly - Harry sucking messily at the head of his cock and fingering him- until suddenly it’s all gone, the mouth against his prick and the finger in his arse. 

Harry lifts his head. “Can I?” he says, and his mouth is all red again, his chin wet, his eyes blown open with want. He’s panting. 

"Wha?" Zayn says eloquently. 

"Can I," Harry repeats, kissing Zayn’s thigh, the muscles in his shoulders rolling as he bends down. "Can I fuck you?" 

And, oh. Zayn didn’t even think of that, but as Harry says it he realizes - god. Yes, that could be good. 

That could be bloody fantastic. 

Harry’s kissing at the shaft of his cock, mouth open and wet, and Zayn says, “Uh, yeah. Yes, yeah, you can.” 

"Yeah?" Harry breathes. "You’ve done it before?" 

"Yes," Zayn says, sharply- but really, who just asks like that? - and Harry kisses him as penance, spreads Zayn’s legs with his elbow - wide enough that the muscles twinge- and reaches over into the nightstand. He comes back with a condom and lube, has Zayn stretched out and gasping for air in minutes. Zayn’s prick is so hard it feels like it could snap right off. Oh, god. He should never  _ever_  use that little simile.

"Alright?" Harry murmurs, as his fingertips graze against Zayn’s prostate for the tenth time in a minute. Zayn is trying very hard to seem unbothered, but the truth is that he would very much like Harry’s cock in him now. 

"Yes," he says roughly, instead of begging, hoping Harry gets what he means. "Alright." 

"Mm, alright," Harry says softly, and then he spreads Zayn’s legs wider and slides in. 

It takes a minute - Zayn has to force himself to breathe, and it’s embarrassing at first, a few fumbles - but then Harry is inside him, and Zayn’s head drops back against the pillow, his whole body tight and loose at the same time, feeling stretched and full. 

"Alright?" Harry repeats, huffing out these hard, quick breaths. "Oh god." 

"Ye-ah," Zayn says. It comes out in a thready, humiliating moan, but he can’t be arsed to care. 

"Fuck," Harry groans, kissing Zayn sloppy and wet, starting up a steady in-out. "Fuck you feel so good." 

Zayn just gasps, harsh and loud in the quiet room, laid over the wet rhythmic sounds of Harry thrusting into him. Harry Styles.  _Inside him_. Zayn doesn’t get starstruck, as a rule, but he feels a dizzy, embarrassed sort of excitement spiral up from the bottom of his stomach just at the thought. Harry lets out a low, ragged sound as he starts to speed up, and Zayn closes his eyes and remembers the long nights of writing the last chapter- not that he knew it’d be the last chapter at the time - listening to Harry’s voice rough in his ear over and over until it felt soothing, like it’d always been there. 

Harry bites Zayn’s bottom lip and Zayn groans, low, tries to focus. Yes. Getting fucked by Harry Styles, that’s happening, to Zayn Malik from bloody Bradford who drank approximately a thousand liters of Red Bull and turned nocturnal for a year to write a stupid, contrived, overwrought, emotional, book that a lot of people seem to like. Zayn likes it quite a lot himself, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is- people like him aren’t supposed to be here, in plush, pillowy hotel beds getting fucked by international popstars. The last time Zayn had sex was on a creaky, uncomfortable sofa in east London and the girl asked him to leave straight after. The time before that was in a club toilet.  

Harry slows down, rocks into him in these close, tight pushes that make Zayn break out in a sweat, his thigh muscles starting to throb with a low pleasant ache. “Zayn,” he says, his voice so deep and sex-rough that Zayn clenches down a bit around him, just on instinct. He draws in a struggling breath. “I want you to come.” 

Zayn tries to say  _Yeah, I’d like that too_  but all that comes out is a hoarse moan. 

Harry smiles at him, kisses him, thrusts into him all at once. Zayn’s not quite sure how but the effect is pretty impressive. “Touch yourself,” he says, low into Zayn’s ear. “C’mon, let me see you.” 

It only takes a couple fast desperate pulls before he’s spilling all over his stomach, choking on air, his eyes squeezed tight. Harry grunts when he sees it, starts fucking into him fast and desperate and comes with a stuttering moan that makes Zayn twitch with helpless aftershocks. Christ. They lie there sweaty and spent for a minute, Zayn staring up at the ceiling as Harry slumps on top of him, slowly going soft inside him. 

God that felt good. Zayn hasn’t gotten fucked like that in ages. 

Maybe never. Maybe he’s never actually gotten fucked like that. That’s a terrifying thought. He’d half-hoped that Harry would be an awful shag, just so he could say something cutting at parties like  _oh yeah, the popstar with the oversized ego and undersized cock_. He’d been thinking of that line. Now he knows it would be a  _blatant_  lie. 

"Mm," Harry mumbles, shifting his not-at-all-undersized cock inside him. "Gonna pull out." 

Zayn just makes a sound of assent, then holds his breath because it hurts the slightest bit. Harry kisses his slack mouth, drops the condom into the bin by the bed and snuggles easily into Zayn’s chest. 

Zayn stiffens. This isn’t - how it usually goes. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like to- do this. The whole after-sex bit, with touching, and lying down together, even after they’ve both gotten off. It just hasn’t been- it’s not what he’s supposed to want. In uni he had a boyfriend who hated that he fancied blokes, so that wasn’t exactly conducive to affection, and at Columbia he had a lot of weird sex that mostly didn’t occur in beds.  _Cuddling is completely bourgeois_ , one girl said, after she’d dripped hot candle wax over Zayn’s belly and then watched him get himself off with hungry, strung-out eyes. He’d woken up with his mouth like sandpaper and the worst hangover and little burns all over his belly and chest. Then he’d written a short story about it for class with poorly-disguised names and gotten a B. He actually had a _lot_ of sex that semester just to write short stories about.  

Anyway. The point is, he deserves a good cuddle. Harry wraps his arm around Zayn’s stomach and kisses his neck, and Zayn breathes out shakily, relaxes into it. 

And then- easy as breathing- he falls asleep. 

He comes half-awake at the feel of damp against his belly. Harry’s bent over him, shadowy in the dim light, swiping at his belly with a damp flannel. 

"Hi," he says, smiling down at him when he notices Zayn’s awake. 

"Hey," Zayn croaks out. "Uh. Do you want me to, um, go?" 

"No." Harry puts a hand on the flat of his stomach and kisses his mouth. He tastes clean, like mint. "Stay, s’alright. We’ll get breakfast. You like eggs?" 

Zayn nods drowsily, already slipping back into sleep. 

—

The next time he wakes, Harry’s hovering around his midsection, licking at Zayn’s hipbones. 

"Whoa," Zayn breathes, sleep-thick, his head popping up. "What are you-" 

"I was wondering if you’d ever get up," Harry says, slipping his hand around Zayn’s morning wood. He slips the foreskin down, licks at the sensitive head, and Zayn’s mouth drops open, skin prickling with goosebumps. Bleeding fuck. 

"God," he manages to say. "I - fuck." 

"Mm, eloquent," Harry laughs, and sucks him down. 

He must really like to suck cock, Zayn decides, watching him through half-lidded eyes. He certainly has the mouth for it. 

Just the thought of that makes his hips twitch up, and Harry gags, recovers fast and slides down again. 

Once Zayn’s come, Harry sits up, wipes his mouth and says cheerily, “Morning!” 

Zayn’s boneless against the bed, eyes fluttering shut. “Morning,” he mumbles, and then, tugging the duvet up to his chin- “Good night.” 

"No, no, no," Harry chides, pulling at Zayn’s arm and flinging the blanket off him. Zayn gives him a practiced dirty look that Harry doesn’t even see. "That was supposed to wake you. Look what we’ve got!" 

He motions at the tray next to the bed, and Zayn sits up slowly, pressing his fingers into his temple to ward off the slight hangover creeping up on him. 

"Whassat?" 

"Eggs!" Harry says proudly. He seems horribly awake. Zayn checks the clock. Well, it is 11:30 AM. "Eggs, and bacon, and potatoes, and some pastries because I wasn’t sure what you’d like - a muffin, blueberry, and coffee and tea because, yeah, don’t know what you drink - some orange juice, and then this hotel makes the most delicious pineapple juice, it’s so fresh. What do you want?" 

Despite the morbid pace of Harry’s voice, Zayn still can’t take in any of what’s just been said. Mornings are difficult. 

"Er," he says, buying time. "Eggs?" 

Harry climbs out of bed, completely arse naked, and goes over to the tray. He comes back with a plate loaded with scrambled eggs, four rashers of bacon, what looks like half a bloody cantaloupe, and a pile of roasties. 

"Jesus," Zayn says. "Uh. Cheers." 

"Coffee or tea?" 

"Coffee. Black." 

Harry makes a face, but pours some out. 

Zayn means to only eat a bit, but before he knows it the plate is almost empty and he’s gnawing on the last rasher of bacon. 

He’s technically vegetarian except for bacon. And Nando’s. And this kebab place round the corner from his flat at Columbia that had the best kofta he’d ever tasted. And his mum’s chicken, only because she looks so pitiful when he doesn’t eat it. 

"So," Harry says, sitting cross-legged and still naked across from him on the massive bed. "Just. So you know. There were some pictures- from last night." 

"Hmm?" Zayn mumbles, mouth full. He gulps his coffee and swallows. "What?" 

"Some pictures," Harry says, looking at him, eyes a little too bright. Nervous, maybe. "Um, of us. Kissing! A bit. In Brooklyn. On the street." 

Zayn drops the last hunk of bacon. 

"What?" he repeats, low, his stomach clenching. "Oh  _God_.” 

Harry nods, slowly, a piece of cantaloupe clutched in one hand. 

"And, um. They’ve identified you and all.  _Zayn Malik, award-winning author_.” He imitates a newscaster-voice. “So. There’s quite a bit of fuss.” 

Zayn fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, nearly upending the plate onto the pure white sheets. He has twelve missed calls, thirty texts, and twenty-seven emails. 

"Oh bloody buggering  _fuck_ ,” he says with feeling. The first message is from Waliyha.  _WHAT THE FUCK Y RU SNOGGING HARRY STYLES!??!!??! GET HIS NUMBER !!!! IF U DONT SHAG HIM I WILL NEVER SPEAK 2 U AGAIN!!! OMG!!!_

He claps a hand over his face. 

"Sorry about that," Harry says, sounding like a kicked puppy. 

"Jesus," Zayn mutters. 

"My publicist wants to talk with you about, er, nondisclosure agreements, and next steps, and what-not," Harry says, delicately. 

"This was so stupid," Zayn groans. 

"Yeah," Harry says, sounding manic. "Well. I’m sorry." 

Zayn looks at him. Harry’s blinking, his eyes a bit glassy, and when he notices Zayn watching he sticks a massive piece of melon into his mouth and looks pointedly at the ceiling. 

"I didn’t mean - this," Zayn says, backtracking desperately. He motions around at the bed. "This was- really. Nice. Really really good." 

"Thanks," Harry says, mouth full, still staring pitifully up at the ceiling. 

"I mean it. Really. Good. Best I’ve had in ages. Only I’ve had in ages, but you know, um. I just- it was really good." 

Harry looks at him, face settling into something more cheerful. 

"Thanks," he repeats. "You were really good too." 

Zayn flushes hot, because Harry’s like - complimenting Zayn’s arse. And its ability to take a dick. Which the whole world bloody knows about, by now. Maybe not in that much detail, but still, you don’t kiss someone the way they were kissing on that street corner last night and then not shag them. 

He looks down at his phone again. Doniya’s also texted, just - _U GROUPIE HAHAHA_

He hates his sisters. 

His agent has called six times and left three messages.  _Fuck_. 

"So," he says, pressing the top button and watching his phone fade to black. "How do we do this, then?" 

Harry looks at him, chewing his bottom lip. 

"There’s just a thing you have to sign- I mean, not have to. If you- if you could. And then, um. Please don’t say things about my cock to the gossip mags. That’d be helpful." 

He looks so chagrined sitting there, with a bit of melon stuck to the side of his mouth and his cheeks flushed. Zayn loses a couple seconds just staring at him. 

"Zayn?" Harry says eventually, and Zayn wrenches his eyes away from the dip in Harry’s full bottom lip, slick and shiny with juice.

"Er," he says. "Yeah. No talking about your prick, I got it." 

"People might follow you around," Harry says. "Not might. They  _will_ follow you around.” 

Zayn nods, his stomach sinking. 

"But, er. They should lose interest if we don’t-" he stops. "If we don’t, you know." 

"What?" God, Harry’s bottom lip is engrossing. Zayn tilts his head to one side.

"If we don’t do it again," Harry finishes. 

Zayn looks into his eyes. “Oh,” he says, deflated. “Naturally.” 

"So if you _really_  want them to lose interest, we shouldn’t,” Harry says, swallowing, his face wide-eyed and tragic. “Only, like. If you want them to lose interest. Then we can’t, uh. Do it again.”

Zayn would quite like to do it again. 

But - paparazzi. Screaming fourteen-year-old girls. Getting followed, getting pictures taken of him. People only reading his book because  _Harry bloody Styles_  put his prick inside him. Zayn shudders to think of the kind of people who’ll read his book now. They probably won’t even understand the central metaphor, let alone that the romantic subplot is actually all taking place in his protagonist’s mind. 

Harry is looking at him, already resigned to it. His hair is in messy curls over his face and he looks about six years old, knobby pale knees and mismatched tattoos over his arms and chest, sitting there waiting. Zayn should really cut his losses. Get dressed, sneak out the back entrance thing, ignore the press, and wait till Harry shags some random up-and-comer. Forget this ever happened. 

Zayn is an idiot. A complete and total idiot with no sense of self-preservation. He is guided by his stupid selfish prick ( _and his heart_ , a voice whispers traitorously, which he dutifully ignores). 

"I want to," he says, scratching at his eyebrow sheepishly. "Um. Do it again. If you want to." 

Harry’s face breaks into the widest sunniest smile. It almost makes Zayn squint. 

"I really do," he breathes, leaning forward a little, his eyes sparkling. "I really really do." 

Zayn lets out a gust of air and eats the last piece of bacon to fortify himself. That’s that, then. 


End file.
